


Painful Delay

by skysonfire



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Anti-Hero, Black Pearl - Freeform, Butcher of the Sea, Capitán Salazar, Dead Men Tell No Tales - Freeform, El Matador Del Mar, F/M, Flying Dutchman, Isle of Stars, Javier Bardem - Freeform, OC, One Shot, Pirates, Rapier, Silent Mary, Spanish Royal Navy, Tomb of Poseidon, Trident of Poseidon, Undead, bark, brig - Freeform, devil's triangle, ghost - Freeform, pirates of the caribbean - Freeform, seven seas, sparrow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire
Summary: Desperate lovers meet in the night on a smokey sea. Salazar entertains his love for only a few moments, unable to keep his distance, despite the curse that plagues him.





	Painful Delay

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Salazar piece, and I'm sorry that it's a one-shot. I'm trying to get a good feel for the character and I am considering writing a AU based on this little series that I'm working on. I hope you enjoy, despite the brevity of the piece. Cheers!

She waits in the damp dark of the fleeting night. The bobbing waves fade in the caress of the moon's light, but the fog lingers about the bark's hull. It clings to the wet, slimy wood and crawls toward the sky. It creeps over the deck and winds about her feet. She holds her breath because she can feel him near. He's all around now — swaddled tightly by the ocean's blue-black curse.  
  
"Aro?" She whispers out into night. He would be angry with her, but she didn't care. Life on land was a painful delay — holding her prisoner from all she loved.  
  
"Out here you'll find only ghosts." The texture of his voice rolls along like the sea's endless swells, and an excited chill forces its way up her back. Her hands tingle and her bones vibrate. She shuts her eyes when she feels him behind her. She yearns inside her thoughts:  
  
_Just touch me._  
  
"Are you sure that's all?" She asks, lowly, turning about to face him.  
  
The night's light reveals his pale face; cracked porcelain. His hair wiles about in the soft wind — weightless as though carried on by mystic waters, but his eyes remain as she remembers, like sunned earth under a Caribbean sky. There's a tired warmth behind them to which she is so accustomed, and her heart expands and stirs.  
  
She presses toward him, unafraid, and he places a gray hand on her back. Her eyes flutter closed as she upturns her face; she breathes him in. He's a mélange of ash and salt and amber. Her fingers dig into the faded colors of his uniform. Everything he wears is gray and weeping.  
  
He brushes cold lips against the warm plush of her mouth. "You shouldn't come here," he murmurs, but he takes her in despite himself, rolling his mouth against her. There's a sour sweetness on him — a delicate, paper-thin sensation that lingers at the top of his flesh, one which threatens breaking if she pushes too hard, but she does because she needs him, and she reaches with both hands for his face as she pressures him to taste her harder, which he does in such a specific way, it makes her whole body burn.

She presses her breasts against his chest; she misses the thundering of his heart when she mills her hips into his pelvis the way she knows he favors. He moves her against the bark’s rail and rides up her skirts with the underside of his hand. Her breathing is desperate and short, and she bites at his lip as he reveals her leg — her thigh gleaming like moonstone in the starlight. He pauses to drink her in, lifting her leg at the knee and squeezing tightly against the powdery flesh that extends just below her buttock.

Pitching her head back, her hair catches in the wind and floats about, haunting her own face. He kisses her neck as he releases her leg and places his hand at her waist. She squeezes his arms because she knows.

“There are worse tortures than being dead,” he laments beside her ear as her chest heaves.

The sun threatens the horizon and land approaches. She can smell sweet hibiscus in the air and the sand of the beach. He embraces her; his presence is soft and waning, and he slides like water through her fingers. She still tastes him on her mouth like longing if longing had a flavor, and she throws the taste into whispers that she gifts to the growing chop of the surf — words that only dead men can hear.


End file.
